Counting
by Her Name Is Erika
Summary: Chase is leaving the recording studio to see Dana for the eighty-seventh time as a friend. But he's also seeing her as her boyfriend – tenth time and counting. / Or, Chase Matthews & Dana Cruz exploring possibilities beyond Pacific Coast Academy's walls. [DanaChase.]


**A/N: I just put out a Y&R oneshot called **_**Fool**_**, and there are currently no reviews. That discourages me but whatever. I tried. So, I thought I spend the weekend finishing Letters to You after like a year of abandonment, but for now, I confess that I'm a closet Dana/Chase shipper – sorry. This pairing has been on my mind for a while, and I warn you. It will be long. I'm not feelin' the Choey unfortunately. **

**Disclaimer: Nope. And I don't own New York, obviously. **

* * *

_Accidental_ is how Chase Matthews describes his _first_ meeting with her.

It's a cloudy Thursday with gray skies with not a cloud in the smoky expanse. He's ordering his usual black coffee while the girl next to him with black rimmed _Dolce & Gabana_ glasses orders a low fat cappuccino. He exchanges short, seemingly random gazes with her before the girl smirks and it's so familiar like he's seen it before many years before.

"I knew it," the woman says, smirk growing wider. "I'd recognize that hair anywhere despite the fact that when I was back at PCA, it was bigger."

Chase's green eyes fill with recognition, and he's smiling from ear to ear, "Dana?"

"Congratulations, Sherlock," is her playfully snarky reply coated with laughter. Her attention snaps back to the person behind the counter wearing a positively bored expression. Going into her purse, Dana pulls out a five. Chase almost wants to pay for her, bur god, that independent nature won't let her accept it so he doesn't.

Chase is united with that black coffee he needs to stay awake, but coffee actually makes him nocturnal now. It's a light thing that starts at PCA for all-nighters concerning monster papers, and then at NYU, the coffee addiction gets worse because that precious caffeine is his lifeline through four years of college. But now, being an underground musician, the struggle to land a record contract requires musicality, song writing with meaningful and sometimes mundane inspiration and black coffee.

Check, check, and check. Sort of.

"Wow, uh, I almost didn't recognize you."

"Yeah, well, that's life for you. I went from cargoes and Vans with a skateboard to," she gestures to herself. " – this," Bringing her drink to her lips, Dana looks at him that nostalgia in her face and making him remember fondly, the eighth grade. "So, what are you doing here in New York?"

"Doing the music thing," is his short reply. "I get gigs with my band on Friday nights. I have a minor in journalism, but towards the end of college," he shrugs, and swallows the sip of his coffee and his face is pensive. "I don't know…it just didn't appeal to me. What about you?"

Her gaze shifts downward, and a small smile appears on her face, "Well, I just came back from Barcelona for a fashion show, and then I had to go to Brooklyn to see my dad and meet a whole other side of my family, I've never met before."

"Ah. That's cool," Chase resolves with a slow, understanding nod of his head and then his eyebrows furrow together almost. "Wait, you model?"

"I know, I know. No chance in hell seeing Danger Cruz become a model," the twenty-four old woman concedes, with a slight roll of her eyes. The taste of mocha dances on her tongue as the last of her drink disappears. His eyes really cut through her and thank God, she bumps into Chase. He can just listen, but Dana's not ready to talk yet. Resting a hand in her cheek, her manicured nail is drummed against the table's surface lightly. "Modeling somehow crept up on me and bit me in the ass in Paris. I finished high school in France and went to Columbia for law and I paid for it by modeling."

"Oh," Chase laughs. "And I'm guessing you graduated while modeling snowballed?"

"Yup," she nods, playful and nostalgic smirk returning to her face because she never truly smiles. "Sherlock is definitely gonna to be my nickname for you."

"I'd be honoured, Dana."

And then they both talk for hours and hours on end, exchanging numbers at the end of it all.

* * *

_Sparkly_ is the only adjective that pops into her head when she looks into Chase's emerald eyes on the _fourteenth_ meeting.

The sun is hot and blazing today in New York, and warms her tanned skin, her back across the bark of a willow tree. Sometimes, she likes to pose in front of a camera – not with piles and piles of gunk and crap layered carefully by those make-up artists, and artificially straightened hair – but she likes the down time from modeling when she poses in a pair of sweats with her face free of make-up and ever known wild and curly hair is tamed with a clip or an endless supply of scrunchies and hair clips littered carelessly throughout her apartment.

Cameras are invasive, zooming in and then flashing. Dana mostly hates being in front of cameras because cameras already know. Electronic appliances that are all–knowing and are aware of every imperfection, every little crack of her façade she seems trying to solidify.

Honestly, she prefers to be behind the camera – in control, and in charge.

And when she's behind the camera, she's the carrier of her own little secrets.

No, Dana definitely isn't ready to share. Not yet.

In the meantime, his green eyes are sparkly in the sunlight reminding her of the green and yellow cat's- eye marble that rolls down a sewer in the street when Dana's eleven years old. She _misses_ that marble very much. God, she's not ready to be dependant, but she's sort of enjoying his company.

"You know what I just realized hanging out with you?"

"What?"

"Your feet," she tilts her head to the side a little. "They're kinda rectangular and oblong shaped."

"I'm aware," Chase laughs, smile evident in his eyes as well. "And strangely I make them work."

Green eyes sparkle again, and Dana feels eleven years old with that marble in her grasp again so she challenges Chase to a game of a tag with a light fist to his shoulder, "You're it, Matthews!"

* * *

_Contemplative_ is what Chase feels after he hangs with Dana for the _twenty-ninth_ time.

He's thinking about a lot of things over the course of band practice.

Chase thinks about how he ends up in New York, and god, he even finds himself pondering about Zoey. He's okay with not being with her. Chase is perfectly content about not being one half of Chase&Zoey, but he does realize that he's not thirteen, awkward, and riding into bicycle poles and falling in love before gravity does a number of him.

There's a time when he does love her. But then Chase is seventeen and naïve. Suddenly, the calls become shorter and shorter, then _I love you's_ turn into sugarcoated goodbyes until fashion and music clash in an ugly melee resulting in a break up. Maybe she's somewhere in Milan. Maybe. But at least, Chase is twenty-four and awake.

"Dude," Aiden calls, pushing a microphone stand out of the way. His hazel eyes are curious and carry the least bit of annoyance. "Where was your head at today?"

"On my shoulders."

"Yeah, not funny, Chase," the lead singer and keyboardist of _East Side Story_ deadpans. Plopping on a burgundy sofa purposely situated in the garage, Aiden's denim clad leg hangs over the arm rest with his bare knee visible. His New Jersey accent is thick. "Man, that song you wrote was fire and will get us that record deal but you were somewhere else. Your solo is usually crazy and intense, but today, it was weak."

The guitarist balances his black and guitar on his lap, carefully pushing a sigh from between his lips.

"Okay, you're right. My head was kinda," he pauses. " – off somewhere."

"No shit, Boston," Aidan leans forward, slightly slapping Chase on the knee lightly. "Now, talk and tell me the truth. I don't want any beatin' around the bush."

Chase sometimes love and hates Aidan, who reminds him off a New Jerseyfied version of Logan with the realness and honesty of Michael, speaking of whom, Chase talks to every other week. How could he not? They're best friends, and Chase is named best man for his wedding to Lisa in Atlanta a year before. But Aidan is loaded with honesty and a weird brand of wisdom that actually works but has to flipped around to be valid and plausible.

"Have you ever done something for a long time because it was expected?"

"Hell no. I was on my way to med school," he glowers at Chase's look of disbelief. "Yeah, don't look at me like that. It's expected when I tell people that I almost became a doctor but," Aidan gets a thoughtful look on his face. " – yeah, that's what went down. Went against my parents, dropped out and been focusin' on my music and the band," he laughs, scornfully and then smirks, gesturing to his ripped jeans and the knees and _Purple Weekend_ shirt. "I don't look like a lab coat, code blue kind of guy anyway."

"No," Chase agrees, when Aidan gets up and pokes his head into the mini fridge and smiles with relief. Soon, he re-emerges with a can of _Corona_.

"Anything else that you want me to clear up?"

The guitarist rakes a hand through his slightly less bushy hair, a sarcastic remark of _you didn't exactly clear up anything to begin with_ dying on his tongue as quickly as it comes, "I've had the same girl so intertwined and involved in my life for at least five or six years. I don't know why, but I've just been thinking about her a lot – "

No!" Aidan puts his can of beer on the table with a slight slam that makes Chase recoil. "Man, listen and listen good. If you're done with this chick, then let it be. The heart is not something' to be _fucked_ around with," Chase finds himself, staring at hazel eyes littered with seriousness and experience. Bushing the russet coloured hair from his eyes, Aidan lowers his voice, "Chase, leave this girl alone and for the love of God, move on."

Like clockwork, Chase feels his phone vibrate in his pants and holds the guitar awkwardly, going into his back pocket.

_I have a surprise for u. Tomorrow.  
Don't wuss out. You're not allowed to.  
-D_

Pocketing his phone, Chase offers a genuine smile, "Thanks, man."

Aidan grimaces at the beer spots on the table and takes a swig out of the can before addressing Chase, "It's cool. Just don't expect any hugs. Tear it up next practice, yeah?"

That's such an Aidan thing to say, and Chase is _still_ thinking.

* * *

_Alive_ is what Dana feels when she hangs out with Chase for the _thirtieth_ time.

It's cloudy like the first time they meet in the coffee across Central Park. She's standing on a platform taking in the view of a rainy, seemingly sleepy New York. She smirks at the horrified look Chase has etched deeply in his face when the harnesses are clicking into the place. She loves this. Bungee jumping makes her heart pounding loudly, thudding loudly in her head. It sets her on fire. Blood rushes through her veins like a raging flood and she's ready to jump. It drizzles.

"You ready?"

"You know, Dana, when you texted me yesterday about a surprise I was expecting like a free muffin or something," he looks down, paling underneath the drizzle of New York rain. "But bungee jumping a hundred feet of a platform _definitely_ isn't what I had in mind. Oh my God."

Dana sighs, and rolled her eyes, "Be a man."

"I shaved yesterday. I grew out of my baby-face stage, y'know. I don't have a choice, do I?"

Her hand sloppily finds his. The rain is getting stronger, and Dana is feeling an idle curl stick to her wet cheek. Chase's hair is straight with the rain, sticking his forehead. She can't help but note that it's falling into his eyes, and his cheeks have a tinge of pink on them. She looks up at him, smirking that holds restrained evil, but Dana's playful in that nostalgically tough way.

"No."

"Oh, you're evil."

"I may be evil, but," one of those rare smiles peak through again. "I'm a tad more nicer. I know you'd wuss out."

"Then you know me well enough. Gravity has it out for me."

"Fine, be paranoid, but we're about to jump."

Suddenly, Dana is still holding Chase's hand _a little tighter_ when they fall.

Oh, gravity.

* * *

The _fortieth_ encounter Chase has with Dana, he feels completely _mystified_ by her.

Sure, she's a beautiful woman wearing a little black dress that clings to her curves. There's just driving back from being on a friend date – the ones that count as a date but they're not dating _dating_. But Dana does look like nice tonight. Turning into her apartment complex, his car is at the entrance of her apartment, apartment 8C.

"Can I walk you to your door?"

"Well, even though I can kick any predator's asses," a smile touches her glossed lips and in a typical Dana-like move, she reaches over and pulls his car keys out of his ignition. She jerks a slender thumb towards her door in a row of condominiums. "Get to walkin', Chase."

"Yes, Ma'am."

He sees her soften by tossing his car keys to him, which he narrowly misses catching, but his reflexes are better. He swears. Really. He's getting better and getting rid of his shoelaces by tucking them into his Converses.

"Look," she pauses, a tight lipped smile on her face. "This was fun, okay?"

"Thanks. I had fun too," he replies, but really doesn't expect her to hug him.

But he returns it, and Chase's shoulder is starting to build immunity to her signature.

* * *

_Secretive_ is Dana's mood on _forty-eighth_ encounter with Chase.

She thinks of her past, and sometimes what could happen if her mother doesn't spring that student exchange program. Maybe, just maybe she can still be at PCA. Maybe she can room with Zoey and her mothering ways while dealing with the urge to shove Nicole into a closet or beat her down with one of designer handbags. And maybe, she ends up as _his_ girlfriend after he stops acting like an immature little boy by snapping the back of her bra clasp against her bare back in English class.

And then reality punches her in the face, and Dana knows not to go through that fire again because _fuck_, she's not going to get burned. Everyone has secrets so she keeps hers buried deeply because that's just the kind of girl she is. She punches it twice as hard and learns how to deal.

Suddenly, he's talking with her about secrets, and bones that reside in the dark recesses of the imaginary closet – like the resentment and sordid love she still carries with the douche bag, the boyfriend of five years in Paris who dumps her out of the clear blue French sky, and the baby she loses in a painful miscarriage, but it's okay. Dana puts everything into her unlikely job of modeling. The wood under her at a bench in Central Park provides an inanimate comfort but Chase is cool too.

"Whitney," she suddenly says, and Chases blinks. He props his leg on his knee, the breeze ruffling his bushy hair while sending wisps of Dana's hair in all directions.

"What?"

Dana sighs, a hand going through her curlier, longer hair although still highlighted, "Whitney. That's my middle name. As embarrassing as it is. My parents were going to name me," she shudders, and still curses Disney for that _High School Musical_ franchise. "Gabriella."

He wants to laugh and makes the beginnings of a snort, but one of her famous death glares stops it instantaneously.

"Dana Whitney Cruz," she says her full name, and turns to Chase. "I never told people because I knew that I'd be ripped on about it, and I'd have to knock some people out. Didn't exactly feel like sending people to the hospital on the first day of eighth grade."

"Try having _Bartholomew_," Chase offers. "And to be honest, only cool people have embarrassing middle names."

It's a genuine laugh that leaves her and she doesn't remember when her laugh is that happy-sounding.

"You idiot," a playful shove is directed towards Chase, and Dana's _somehow_, _some way_ drawn those eyes again. "You're lucky I told you, so feel special."

He widens his eyes, and gives this look like he's won the Dana-didn't-kill-me Award.

"Oh, I do," he smiles back at her, the faraway bark of a golden retriever being the park's soundtrack. "Thanks."

* * *

Rocking out with his band, _East Side Story_ makes Chase feel _unrestricted_.

But Aiden's ready to break the microphone stand in half upon from hearing from Joey, the sheepishly shy bass player, that their drummer Zack gets wasted and thinks he's Spiderman by scaling a tree and resulting a fall that breaks his collarbone and his wrist.

"Jesus Christ!" Aiden yells, and starts to pace the wings while they wait to be introduced for their set. "The one time I tell Zack not to go all out with the booze, he decides to fuck me over and does it! You know, I have half a mind to go over there and beat up the son of a – "

"Man, the guy busted two," Joey emphasizes this by showing two fingers. " – places by falling out of a tree. It would have made a kick ass reaction video if we were the type of people to get kicks out of pain but we're not," the bass player pauses, almost confused at his own words. "I think that's punishment enough."

"You confused yourself, didn't you?" Chase asks, with a hand on his band mate's shoulder.

Joey blinks, "I think I did. But poor Zack."

"Yeah," he replies, sardonically. "It's the _in_ thing to rebel against gravity when drunk."

He's just as high-strung as Aiden, but he's really going over the deep end. Joey, with his blue bass strapped to him sighs quietly because his attempt at humor clearly goes over Aiden's head. Chase offers help, because he really doesn't want a nervous breakdown on his hands and holy crap, it's the freakish economics class with the evil teacher all over again.

Finally, Aiden stops his neurotic pacing and snaps his fingers.

"Are the people in white with the nets coming to get him?" Joey remarks in a stage-whisper, while leaning over to Chase.

"Maybe tomorrow."

"Chase, buddy!" Aiden walks over with a grin, hands on his shoulders. "Hey, wanna be the person to ultimately save my sanity, and call that hot model friend of yours? I mean, she knows how to bang out a good drum solo and," he smiles like he hides some dastardly conspiracy. "I wouldn't mind lookin' at her. Easy on the eyes, know what I mean?"

Sometimes, he gets angry with Aiden over trivial things like strolling over to his apartment uninvited and eating his bowl of green jello. And Chase gets irritated when Aiden gets his license suspended for a week for reckless driving. But for some unexplained reason, there's a steady anger and annoyance amplified ten times over and _godamnit_, Chase is just so protective of Dana even though she doesn't need it.

"Don't talk about her like that, man. Not cool."

"Why do you care?"

"Because," Chase is peeling the man's hand off his shoulder, and maybe hanging out with her is rubbing off on him. Nostalgia washes over him and he's wondering why he's transported in a time machine fixing Logan with that look of slight annoyance and disdain. "It's sexist, okay?"

Whoa, déjà vu.

"She's an old, very good friend of mine, so just lay off."

He's shoving by Aiden, dialing that number that is so familiar to him.

Answering in five rings, her typical grumpy voice tells him she's been sleeping, "What, Chase?"

"Have you been sleeping?"

"There's a reason I dubbed you Sherlock," he hears her yawn over the phone and it's eighth grade all over again – the memory of Dana resting her head on his shoulder because she can, and she's just so _fucking tired_. All the while she's flipping Logan off and shutting him down with a sleepy glare that could peel the paint off the walls of the lounge because once again, she can. "But I'm not anymore. What do you want?"

"Well," Chase rubs the back of his neck. "Our drummer thought he was Spiderman and fell out of a tree while drunk, so we need a drummer."

"No."

"Please, Dana. It's me, c'mon," he begs. Chase is actually minutes away from going on his knees to an imaginary Dana, and stupid, neurotic Aiden is going to totally some of that underhanded, morally invisible Chase Matthews brand of revenge. "There's another band up right now, so we're on in," he glances at his watch. " – twenty minutes."

Dana sighs, "I hate that I like you _that_ much, Chase."

"Uh," his eyebrows furrow together. "So, does that mean you'll drum for my band?"

"Stop pointing out the obvious, Matthews," she takes on that threatening, I'm-gonna-kick-your-ass-to-Manhattan-and-back tone before hanging up. "So, help me. If that lead singer of yours hits on me again, I swear, I'll use him as a human drumstick."

He breathes a sigh of relief, "You rock. You know that?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Again, Chase hears another yawn escape the Latina on the other line. "Give me fifteen. Bye."

There's a reflective smile that _somehow_ crosses his face slowly when she hangs up and he really doesn't know why that is.

But twenty minutes later, _East Side Story_ is playing a new song called _Windows_ and there's a silent _fifty-sixth_ encounter between them that is so strangely powerful and potent.

* * *

Dana feels completely and utterly _naked_ and _fragile_.

Encounter number _sixty-six_, and she's dwelling on something that pretty fucking pathetic.

The red wine feels oh so good going down her throat and she's crying like it should actually means something. She's crying in silence like it'll make the tabloids with _his_ goddamn face disappear as his newly engagement status with _her_. Everything is so white, and pure and pretty like a fairytale.

" – and people like me," she whispers, bitterly wanting to break her television in a million little pieces. She doesn't love him, but she entertains the idea. The idea of what if. The idea of maybe. All Dana gets is the definite answer of never. She laughs a hollow laugh. "We don't get that."

"Did you drink half of this bottle of wine by yourself?"

Big tears are rolling down her face, and she's so vulnerable. But the red wine is so smooth and makes her feel like she's validated and in existence.

"Yeah," she's slurring her words together. "And you know what? There are those white horses that actually sit there and look pretty," she swallows, running her finger along the rim of the crystal glass. "And then there are the ones who kick you in the fucking head."

He's never seen her like this – crying so much that she's masking it with delicious wine. And she loves Chase so much for just listening. But at the same time, she hates his silence. She really does because she can hear her breathing and her heart pounding so loudly. Dana doesn't want to be fragile and watch her pretty little wall to crack piece by piece.

"Fuck," she sighs, and put her damp face in her hands. Sniffling loudly, Dana tries to stand up and Chase catches her waist when she's about to kinda topple over. Being a little drunk never hurt anyone. Besides, it's like a band-aid. The faster it's ripped off, the less it hurts. Chase sees her face – her mascara running and making light black tracks down her cheeks. "When the hell did your reflexes get better?"

"I think I grew up with better reflexes, if not the greatest, Dana."

"Oh, that's great," is her sarcastically bitter-charged response. "I mean, I'm still hung up on the bastard that kissed me and told me he loved me one day before I left. The joke was on me, though," Again, she's laughing and she can't understand why she's not breaking his hand for wiping her tears away. So what if he has soft thumbs? "I dated a guy for five years before he screwed his ex and dumped me. I found out _after_. He made me lose my kid," she sniffles, trying to keep from sounding weak and needy and helpless because god, she's _Danger Cruz_, and someone like that doesn't need _anyone_. "Oh, and my dad, my dear ol' dad. The son-of-a-bitch leaves me and my little sister with my mom. Lo and behold, he's gotta a whole other family of kids and a new wife, and suddenly he's Father of the Year!"

"I don't know what to say," Chase says, softly.

"Don't pity me. I don't want to be a charity case."

He lets go of her, and she sits back down because again Dana has no choice.

"I'm not," he defends, eyes flicking to the half-empty bottle of dark red wine. She's so drunk and honestly he's a little scared. He lowers his tone, soft enough for her to actual register what he's saying. "You're one of the strongest people I know," he gently moves her face so brown eyes collide with his green ones and Chase smiles warmly. "You don't need anyone to pity you anyway."

"My parents lied to me."

"How?"

"My mom said," she pauses to remember, some of her composure regaining. " – that a prince would carry me away and make me happy but I was five and naïve."

She's reaching for the bottle again, and Chase's hand intercepts hers.

Dana's never held his hand before. Everyone says that hand belongs to Zoey and they are soul-mates, star-crossed, destined to be together. But after having Romeo & Juliet forced down her throat in French no less, Billy Shakespeare can't be sugarcoated and soul mates usually die together. So, there's really is no happy ending. But still, her hand is all warm against his pale one and Dana's getting all tingly.

"Look," Chase sighs and glances downward. "I thought I was going to be with Zoey forever. I mean, together and married with a child or two with a dog and everything. That's not the case right now but I'm not dead," he jokes to slightly lighten the mood. "Maybe I should have a metal plate in my head for all those nasty falls but I'm still standing."

Cracking a smirk, Dana's full of silent gratitude, "I don't say this to a lot of people, and it's not the wine talking but – " she smiles genuinely. "Thanks."

"Anytime."

* * *

_Recklessness_ is what Chase feels when he's around her for the _seventy-fifth_ time.

The memories of a girl with dirty blonde hair, an initialed pink polka-dotted key around her neck complete with pretty eyes, and a slight Southern accent are locked within the pages of a hardcover yearbook – trapped between papers of pictures of a time when there's carelessness and naivety in the air. But that's all they are – just memories that collect dust over time.

He feels reckless – like he can actually slide down a banister and land on his two feet, like riding a bike without a helmet. But logic is a silent nagging in the back of his mind. _East Side Story_ gets that record deal, finally, and slowly, slowly, his lips are colliding with hers in the one of the booths of the _Hard Rock Café_ on Broadway. Maybe Chase has had one too many, and maybe he's stone sober but her lips taste like watermelon and Smirnoff Ice.

Her lips work on his jaw line, forming into one of those tiny, secretive, I-know-something-you-don't kind of smirks against it. Chase sort of likes Dana's body on his lap when her breath tickles the bottom of his earlobe. Her whisper is hushed and raspy despite the pounding bass of the music and the loudness of the partygoers that blend together.

"Let's get outta here."

He's supposed to be all reckless but he's feeling the warmth of a blush creeping along his neck. Ah, the blush fails and the beginnings of a hickey appear.

Chase nods almost dumbly, Dana's dark eyes twinkling, "Okay."

The memories of a lovesick teenager falling down stairs, bloody arms and first high school kisses are slowly inching away from him. Sunsets under a Hawaiian sky with young empty promises littered with numerous _I love you_'s swim in and out of his line of consciousness.

Maui, what – and Dana's hair is curly, soft between his fingers as she straddles him when they get to his apartment, three blocks away from Times Square.

They fall into his bed while in a tingle of limbs, unhooked bras with black lace, undone belt buckles and loose ties. He feels friction and fire from skin colliding and meshing.

But he sort of likes that.

Tonight Dana makes Chase feels _dangerous_ and _reckless_.

Dana is actually _thoughtful _when she wakes up in Chase's apartment, sheets wrapped around her. But he's next to her and catches those eyes open.

"Hey," he greets sleepily, and grimaces slightly at how bright the lights actually are. Chase brings a hand to his head and runs it. "Is it just me or does my head feel like it's slightly being split open?"

"Welcome to the hangover, grasshopper," she snarks at him with a light nudge. "You weren't that drunk, but still I was sober enough to drive here," Dana stares at him with observation. "You're a very silly but quiet drunk."

Chase shifts a little on his side, slightly shielding himself from the sunlight with a pillow.

"Thanks," he yawns. "Hadn't noticed."

"But we did have sex last night."

"Yes, we did," he replies, with a sigh when Chase pulls his face away from the pillow. "Any second thoughts?"

She can honestly say no because she's cried _him_ out of her goddamn system, and now she's just hoping not to want to punch that guy if by chance she ends up modeling in California.

"Nah," she shakes her hand, slightly. "Regrets are for pansies. And speaking of pansies," she allows a smile to break through. "You know those people – the ones with no social life – who make up those stupid superlatives in the yearbook and pair people up?"

"Yes," and he's laughing because she's laughing. "I think I'm familiar."

"We totally and completely pissed those people off," she bluntly says before Dana smiles again because she's not totally better but she's healing.

"You never changed a bit, Dana," he smiles really wide when she sighs knowingly at him and rolls her brown eyes in that playfully endearing manner of hers.

At least, she's starting to see things in perspective.

It's way too early but Dana will deal.

Chase is leaving the recording studio to see Dana for the _eighty-seventh_ time as a friend.

But he's also seeing her as her boyfriend – tenth time and counting.

* * *

**A/N: Oh, I am so in love with this piece you don't even understand. I wrote this for a couple of reasons: 1) there were rumors of Sean Flynn and Kristin Herrera being romantically. Whether or not, they were actually dating is a mystery but it did intrigue me and they would make an adorable couple in real life. The actors would. 2) I'm not going to give up on this section. NO WAY! I will keep writing even though I'm the only standing with a decent plot and readable grammar. And this needed a long oneshot. I get bored with Choey and Chase/Dana intrigue me because honestly, I don't care for Dana/Logan at the moment either. **

**I've decided to clean up this section even though I'm doing it on my own. I will be leaving long thoughtful, critical reviews on the stories that need help because they are ones that really do in terms of grammar and such. So, if you get one from me, don't be surprised. My Zoey 101 Clean up Revolution begins NOW.**

**Um, yeah. That's it. I'm off to bed now. Reviews would be nice to get when I wake up. I hope I get Dana's head well enough.**

**-Erika**

**PS. I have a Dustin/Logan oneshot forming when Logan gives Dustin The Talk. Yep, I'm jotting it down before bed even though it's 2 in the morning, and my mom will skin me alive if she finds out I'm still up.**


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